Boys and Girls
by bookworm0706
Summary: -BBC version- Margaret Hale had thought about visiting Milton to propose her business plan, but she feared the fresh shame and pain seeing John Thornton would bring. After all, his passions for her were over. 6 years later, they meet again. Cue the drama.
1. Prologue

A/N: And now for something a little different! I'm not going for perfect historical accuracy (I guestimated the prices, for example, the accent won't be perfect, lord knows the project is totally unrealistic) but try to get swept up in the charm anyway ;)

**Takes place according to the movie, but Margaret never went to Milton to see Thornton: **instead she had Henry write a business letter, and has since kept in contact via 'her agent' in Milton.

Also: the **timeline** is based around the 'Great Exhibition', which occurred in 1951. So, the Hales arrived in Milton the winter before that, I believe (1850), and Margaret Hale left there the winter afterwards (at the end of 1851). The story begins three years after Thornton and Margaret have last met.

Also 2: I promise to try and finish this story at least… It shouldn't be a very long one.

~*~

**London, November 1854**

Despite the encroaching darkness, Mary whistled a cheerful tune. Her payday-money jingled with every step. 14 shillings this week! She'd been working hard, flirting up the gents and flattering the dames, and the result was a very satisfactory weight in her little purse. Why, if she put 5 shil' aside this week, she and Tom would almost have enough to marry! Her heart beat a joyful rhythm, and perhaps it was this lightness of spirit that bade her hail the young man huddled against an empty doorway from a cautious distance.

"Oi you!" The youth raised his head. Underneath the dirt, she thought he must be around fifteen. "You go' a place fer tonight?"

The boy scowled. "What d'ya think? Tha' I be out 'ere for the fresh air?"

She hummed noncommittally. "You an orphanage boy, or a runaway?" This was said this with all the lofty superiority of her 19 years.

"Done up n' got outta the workhouse while I could."

"Well, I reckon if you ain't no thief an' no liar, you're in a spot o' luck: Bobby's just quit Miss Margret's, so there's a bed open for a lad like you."

"Miss Margret's?" Wariness, tinged with hope. Clearly this boy hadn't been on the streets for long. Why, by the time she'd started hoping that Miss Margaret's was real, she'd been living there for a week!

"Kind of a lodgings, see, fer people like you'n me ain't got no other place to go. You 'ave to pay Matron 6 shil a week, an get you an 'onest job, an help cleaning on Sundays, but if Matron likes you it's good food an a good bed every night, 'till you got a place fer yerself."

The boy started to look interested, and he hauled himself up from the step to join her. "Well, think I'm of a mind to join you then."

"Good, 'cause I weren't gonna wait fer you much longer, it's almost dinner. What's yer name, boy?"

"Me name's Jem."

"Mary."

They walked a few street-lengths in brisk silence. the streets had grown quite dark and cold, and Mary knew the dangers of this dirty, godforsaken part of town. she wasn't _frightened_, not with the small knife she'd learnt to carry at all times, but she wasn't stupid either.

"Mary?" She hummed. "Who's Miss Margret?"

"The d—n sweetest lady there ever were, an don't you ferget it!"


	2. Chapter 1

London, December 1854

Margaret loved these dinners with the children. To be sure, she loved her Harley Street family excessively, especially Sholto and his sister Emily, and was perfectly content when dining there. But on these nights, amidst Matron's upbraiding everyone impartially, the giggling laughter of the youngest, the excited whispers of the somewhat older girls about this beau and that cap and didn't Miss Margaret look fine this evening, Jem's boasts of the shipyard, the general complaints about work; on these nights she could feel the hum of the future in the air, could see her charges' grateful respect (even 11-year-old Johnny did his best to improve his manners when 'Miss Margret' came), could feel their love like a balm on her saddened heart. When at her most lonely, when her regrets and thoughts settled like a leaden mantle on her shoulders, she would walk through the neighborhood where she had done – and would do – so much good, or visit with these youngsters whom she had given new hope. Even if these contemplations did not make her deliriously happy, they did fill her with a peaceful satisfaction and comfort; and this was all she needed to keep on.

As it was a Saturday, Matron went 'round with the tin after dinner; each child obediently put in their 6 shillings. Later tonight, Margaret knew Matron would extract her own wages, and on Monday Miss Gray would receive hers, and still there would be enough for filling meals next week and a bit put by. Such a system! Margaret was proud all over again, and spared a quick wistful thought for her inspiration.

Later, when Susan and Jenny had helped Matron wash up, and the whole troupe was gathered round her in the big room, Margaret read a prayer and told one of the biblical stories she had been reared on. As always she felt a brief pang for the father she had lost so cruelly, but no longer were these spasms of rending grief, rather, a sweetly poignant remembrance.

She closed the good Book, and after a momentary pause, nodded at Mary. The oldest of her girls at 19, Mary was a stout, sweetly pretty girl with much sense. When she rose, 26 heads – blond and red and brown and black – turned to watch her. The girl cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her, suddenly bashful. "I know I've been talkin' about it fer so long not a one of you thought it would even 'appen, but… me an Tom're getting married next Sunday."

An absolute ruckus ensued. Everyone wanted to know all the particulars all at once, and Mary was fairly glowing with delighted consciousness by the time everyone was satisfied. The conversation rescinded into the usual chatter and babble (Margaret had found it so disorienting and overwhelming at first, but two years had accustomed her to hearing everything and talking to everyone at once) until Jem – a solid, excellent youth with a mischievous streak as wide as the Thames – called out,

"Miss Margret, 'ow come you ain't married?" Immediately Margaret was the focus of all attention. "Yes, Miss Margaret, how come? It's right strange, you with such a bonny face, you must 'ave 'ad a few offers!" Margaret smiled wryly. Betty, at least, would never make a maidservant with such a crass tongue.

She smiled a small secretive smile, though for a moment all she could see was a pair of intense eyes under dark brows, all she could hear was and impassioned voice (_I want to marry you because I love you!_), all she could feel was a heavy coat under her fingers. "I'm no longer considered a great prize by the _ton_, you know. I've had my chances, but you know it isn't ladylike to talk about it Betty."

Properly abashed – though ever in that kind, gentle voice – Betty settled back in her chair. Joe's question, though, had them all leaning forward again. "But you never married 'em? Weren't you never in love?" He sounded incredulous: at his 17 years, it was perfectly normal to be falling in and out of love every week.

Such a deep, fresh grief as came over her face then, they had never seen her show. Her hands as they lay on the table absorbed all Margaret's attention as she pushed back the tears, tried to smooth the pink lips back into a calm smile, attempted to land upon a cheerful subject but unable to. Her boys and girls watched in concern, and Johnny – who adored her as if she _were_ his mother – reached up clumsily to kiss her cheek. A weak smile at him, a glance at the attentive faces around her, and Margaret succumbed with a great sigh that seemed to come gusting down all the way from the north.

"Years and years ago," so began all her stories about what she half-jokingly referred to as her youth, "I met a man. He was a handsome, intelligent man, but also very stern. I thought him proud and rough, and, to be honest, sometimes cruel." She talked slowly, as if thinking over each word, and a tiny smile of bittersweet remembrance found its way to a face painted with regret. Her audience paid her rapt attention; even bustling Matron had put down her knitting. "But he loved me." (One of her audience murmured a soft 'an who could do different, I wonder?') She breathed in deeply, as if the telling pained her – as indeed it did, for her she always tried to think of other things rather than burden herself and others with this yearning.

"He loved me, and he asked me to marry him. But I disliked him, and I said no, in quite a mortifying manner I'm afraid." A rueful chuckle, a sheen of tears as quickly gone as they came. "And then… I still don't know quite what happened then: perhaps he changed, perhaps I did, perhaps I simply grew less blind, perhaps all three… But it happened all the same: he fell out of love with me, and I – I fell in love with him." She stopped, staring once again at her hands, now tightly clenched in a pantomime of a handshake, hiding her face.

"And so you still are now, miss," Matron murmured, and Margaret raised her eyes to the older woman's, arrested by the understanding and compassion she found there.

"And so I still am," she echoed softly, "though I never saw him again."

Again the silence descended. A few children fidgeted, they wanted more. "What was 'is name?" Betty asked her question carefully, aware of the fragile mood which had taken over the big room.

Margaret smiled tenderly, and reached out a hand to smooth over little Johnny's rich curls. "John. His name was John."

The expression of her countenance had been enough to move some of the girls to tears, and seeing this, Margaret endeavored to recompose herself. "There now, my dears, it's not so horrible. I've had a long time to get used to it, you know. But you all" and here she looked sternly around the room "must promise me not to tell this story outside of these walls! I won't have it spread about."

Almost as one, her charges spat on their palms and held them out to her, and this at last coaxed out a laugh. "Thank you, loves."

And what she had said was quite truthful: Margaret had cried her tears and dreamed her nightmares, and though her great love for John Thornton still beat as strong as it ever had in her devoted heart, mostly now it was a source of comfort, of pride that such an excellent man existed, and that she 'loved, and would love him still'. True, there had been shades of sorrow about her ever since quitting Milton, even after the mourning for her father had ended, but only in her darkest, loneliest moments did she shed bitter tears for what she had had, and lost.

~*~

That night when Margaret returned to Harley Street, she found her aunt was still awake and pretending not to have been waiting for her return. This happened more often than not, so Margaret was not surprised.

"Oh my dear Margaret", Mrs. Shaw cried, "I am never at my ease when you stay away like this in the dark… One of your boys walked you home?" This question was put to her every time, but Margaret knew it for the kindness it was and was not exasperated, as she otherwise might have been. She laughed gently.

"Yes, Aunt, a strapping lad named Robert walked with me to the door, with a lantern as you asked. He works at the Count's stables. A foolish drunk to try something with Robert to protect me!"

Her aunt watched her shaking out the dark curls from her bonnet and smoothing the plain brown dress, and sighed. "Still so good and so much spirit. Whatever shall I do with you, my niece?"

Margaret's eyes softened and she came forward to grasp Mrs. Shaw's hands. "Spirit, perhaps, but tempered now with some wisdom I hope." A sad cast resurfaced in her eyes. "Does my work still vex you, Aunt?"

The lady smiled fondly and gently smoothed back an errant curl. "No, my dear, for I have long realized that you are not meant for the _ton_, and made my peace with it. But will there never come an end to that great heart of yours? When will your capacity for loving finally be at an end?"

And indeed Margaret could not answer her. She felt that her heart was already filled to every brim with that impossible love, but her Aunt was had spoken the truth: somehow there was always enough love left for so many others. _How does that work?_

~*~

Even the most gossipy amongst the boys and girls who were at Miss Margaret's place that night never spread the story around. Their loyalty was a thick rope binding them, and as the years passed, as new youngsters found their way to Miss Margaret's to stay for a few weeks, a few months or a few years, the bindings were passed down. From bedroom to bedroom, whispered from ear to ear, they told and retold it: that Miss Margaret had refused a man only to find too late that she loved him, how the tears had shone in her large eyes, and that his name had been John. And each new initiate spat on his or her hand and swore never to tell.


	3. Chapter 2

Note: Last chapter I mentioned 'Henry's two little girls' in the opening paragraph, but that hardly fits the timeline I've worked out fully now, so I've scrapped them and replaced them with a fictional little sister for Sholto.

**Note #2:** It seemed natural to me, at first, to call my character 'Thornton' when narrating from his POV. On second thought, I settled on 'John' as being less discriminating towards Victorian men, who, it often seems, simply _have_ no Christian names .

~*~

Milton, February 1855

"A letter from Town for you, Master." Jacobs the clerk knocked on the frame of the open doorway, politely waiting as always for permission to enter his master's private office.

How many times had John Thornton heard those selfsame words? And still they sparked an immediate agitation, a mingling of anticipation and regret. He looked up from his ledgers to receive it, however, with a well-practiced bland face. "Yes, thank you Jacobs."

The letters from Mr. Henry Lennox arrived every few months. They neither of them were chitchatting men, but both knew the value of good business relations. Accordingly, the news exchanged was usually no more than an accounting of the Mill's trade and assets, perhaps with an answer to a few enquiries. Half a page to a page usually sufficed. But Mr. Lennox's direct prose – although it was admittedly elegant – was not the reason John felt a distinct skip of his heart every time such a letter arrived, nor was his even hand. It was this: that as he hurriedly broke the seal and unfolded the paper, his eyes always focused first on the very last line:

'Yours, etc.

Mr. Henry Lennox, speaking for

Miss Margaret Hale'

He was never satisfied until he could read the words '_Miss_ Hale' at the bottom of a letter. What he would do if the words ever became '_Mrs._ Margaret so-and-so', John knew not. He suspected that it would involve some very unmanly tears. As always he mocked at himself: such relief to discover Margaret still unwed! He was as jealous still as a new lover, though he knew that the woman he loved was forever lost to him – after all, she had despised him, and since leaving Milton – _and him!_ his mind wailed – she _had_ never come back. Still, if he could not have her, it was an unchristian comfort to him that no others did.

His eyes roved to the opening of the letter. '_Mrs. Wallace has informed you correctly. I am indeed to be wed soon, and I thank you sir for your kind congratulations. I am certain of Miss Rothwell's and my happiness.' Well, _he thought vindictively, _at least Henry Lennox shall not have her either!_ (I am sure, my dear reader, that we can forgive Mr. Thornton such pettiness: after all, for four long years Henry Lennox has been his prime object of jealousy! Imagine how it has pained him to write dozens of polite letters to a man he despised, simply because of the threat he posed to a mere dream of Miss Hale.)

But now John could answer the letter in a very good humor indeed, though he knew himself to be as irrational as any woman in that moment: Miss Hale must have other lovers; but he did not know them, could not imagine them as tangible threats in the way that he had envisioned her with her brother all those years ago – though _that_ bitter envy had long been rectified – and, since then, with the Mr. Lennox who had so coolly looked down at him at the Great Exposition.

~*~

Milton, June 1855

He thought Miss Anne Latimer – now about to become Mrs. James Burgess – had something of a triumphant tilt to her chin when she flicked him a glance during her walk up the aisle. As if she was saying to him: _Hah! You would not have me, but I have found a better! _Now_ you may regret me!_ In his mind, John mocked her for her foolishness. When the Mill had regained its former prosperity, Miss Latimer had deigned to associate with him again, expecting him to be panting with his luck at being given a second chance. She had been very mortified to discover him not the least bit interested and barely even courteous. As if he could respect a girl who had shown herself to be so flighty! Never.

Moreover, the visit to Helstone all those years ago, right before the arrival of the Business Proposition, had cleared his mind. He had made his peace with the world and with Margaret Hale: he knew her to be a liar, but a righteous one; he knew her to be unmarried and could hope that she remained unattached; he knew that she disliked him and probably Milton as well; he knew her to be far too good for him. But still he loved her and still he would, even after four long years John's heart was as faithful as it had ever been. Daydreams and nightly wishes were to be his part, and he accepted it.

Acceptance had taken its toll: he had become graver than ever, for with his resolution he had let a despairing loneliness into his breast. It had not faded over the years but become easier to bear, grown into a part of him so that he barely remembered a time of true joy. Yet, in her honor, he had also released his compassion from its cage. The dinner scheme, the doctor's jar, the mutual respect between himself and his workers came forth from it and gave him some small amount of happiness.

_If Miss Hale could see me now_, John thought, and then shook his head in amusement, for surely there was no worse time to be daydreaming of another than during the matrimony of a girl you once walked out with.


	4. Chapter 3

London, March 1857

When Jem sauntered into the taproom on Thursday evening, Mary clucked at him in mock disapproval, filling his mug with ale before he'd even taken his customary seat at the end of the bar. She had been steward at the Crown Jewels since last winter and so could well afford to treat him a drink every week, but it amused them both to play at stingy barmaid and wheedling customer. At least until the serious business started, and what a choice piece she had to offer her old friend tonight! Mary felt unexpectedly as if she were a young girl again, giddy with secret knowledge. She savored the feeling, and perhaps Jem noticed her flushed cheeks and quick, fluttering hands – he was a perceptive, quick lad for all his shipyard bluster – and cut short his cheerful everyday stories sooner than he otherwise would have.

Still, Mary felt it to be painfully long: she was serving, managing, washing, seeing everything at once, and so must regularly interrupt Jem to do every kind of thing. He was long used to it, however, and they had learnt to fit their conversation seamlessly into the harmonious chaos all around.

"So, Mary," Jem drawled, "on to more serious matters, and since I can see that you're dying to tell me something, I'll tell my bit first. I assure you 't is well worth it." Even when he frustrated her – as he was certainly doing now, the scoundrel! – Mary had always been too fond of that cocky grin. More often than not, it enticed her to give the little devil his way when she knew full well that he was haring off on some foolish scheme once again. The pleasure of seeing that smirk on a face which she had once known so grim and drawn, however, always drew her back once again into folly.

She submitted with ill grace, but was immediately distracted by Jem's news, which was fascinating indeed: "I declare you'll never believe it, I hardly believed it meself 'cept I heard it straight from Billy who heard it from Robert, and I daresay he knows best as he made up the carriage 'imself: the Count's daughter is baking! She's been shipped off to the country; it's all very hush-hush," with a sardonically lifted eyebrow.

"That scrawny girl Robert thinks is so pretentious and sour? I wonder she should appeal to any man enough." For propriety's sake, this last was said only for the ears of her companion, who nodded.

"And," he added, "as I heard it the chit's barely 15! The maids reported that she'd been very sick in the mornin' for a while, and the surgeon came and it's all quite certain."

"Good gracious!" Mary exclaimed, scandalized. "If even the ladies and gents can't stay decent enough to go unnoticed…" She shook her head.

Jem grinned that unrepentant smile. "Ah, but Mary you know at least we're all observing them, and them never knowing a thing!"

This, then, was the important business, was the tune to which they danced, the rhythm to which city-bred ears were so finely attuned: gossip. Glorious, scandalous, romantic, spiteful, nosy gossip. Their own class weren't excluded from this web of tales, but it was their tradition to 'start with the best', as Jem always said with a degree of mocking humor; the 'best' classes always had the best, juiciest reports to offer. It enraptured Mary as it always had: the distinction between knowing or not knowing, the thrill of the guessing-games, the sensation of being a living and important part of this network of ears and mouths. Oh, she had learnt early on to watch in whose ear she dropped her tales, but she was an omniscient hub of information for nearly all of her acquaintance.

The tales also soothed her, in that she could force her thoughts to exertion on behalf of someone _else_'s baby, and not remember the two pitiful, half-formed children she had born and lost.

They canvassed Polly Smith's latest illness, Robert's romance, three duels and a whole spade of spiteful rumors about Bertha Jenkins in this way before Mary could no longer keep her news to herself.

"Oh! But Jem, now you must let me tell you something!" He nodded good-naturedly, as if not really expecting a revelation. Mary leaned in closer and spoke in an undertone: "Mr. Thornton is here!"

"What!" Jem leaned forward so quickly that they barely avoided cracking their skulls together. "Mr. Thornton! Of 'what would Mr. Thornton do?' _That_ Mr. Thornton?"

Mary shushed him quickly, but could not contain her own delight. "Yes! He registered and I asked him, all casual like, where he was visiting from, and it's from Milton Jem! It's really him that's here!"

Jem was fairly bouncing on his stool. Utterly unbeknownst to the man himself, John Thornton was fairly a celebrity at Miss Margaret's place. His story, she always told the children, had impressed and inspired her to offer them the same opportunities. She used his example whenever someone needed encouragement or faith. They were all duly impressed, but, true to their way, had not been able to resist making a joke out of it: 'What would Mr. Thornton do?' was now a question laughingly asked whenever someone encountered a problem. The answer usually included some superhuman feat of strength or cunning, each more creative than the one before.

"What's he like, Mary?"

"Oh, a fine man! Tall, quite handsome, polite but a little stern. He's only arrived this morning."

"Hmm…" Jem's eyes took on a calculating gleam. "Polite you say?"

"Oh no you don't, you rascal! I know that look! You're not to be bothering my customers!"

"Bother him? Why Mary, I never! I just want to help him, that's all. If he's got any manners he'll have to call on Miss Margret soon, and I'll bet he does it tomorrow. And, lucky me, that's my day off! He's sure to look for her in Harley Street, but Miss Margret'll be with us tomorrow to help Miss Gray. I reckon I can get him to come to us!" The perfectly innocent smile could not hide the spark of mischief.

"Oh Jem," on a sigh, "must you always? What do you want to meddle for, anyway?"

The boy looked affronted. "I want to meet him, 'a course! And it won't happen if he stays with all the other ladies and gents. Besides Mary, think of how much fun it will be! Us, moving the ladies and gents around like game pieces! Now, tell me everything about him…" Mary sighed and feigned unwillingness, but secretly she was as excited as Jem. Them as the players instead of the pawns, it was a novel idea indeed!

~*~

"Hey Joe," Jem asked a boy later that evening after dinner, as casually as he could, "you work with them shoe-polishers, right?"

"Yup." The boy in question was small and freckled with shockingly red hair.

"Alright, I need you to listen to me real good…"

If Matron noticed the two bent heads together, she thought nothing of it, unknowing that what those boys were planning would change everything.


	5. Chapter 4

**Note #1** : I don't do all those J-names on purpose…

**Note #2:** Sorry for any crapitude, this was written at 4:30 in the morning and [my muses think I could keep sik.] _(And then I started garbling incoherently. What I meant was: I didn't have the brain capacity left to revise it. Now, a day later, I think I do.)_

~*~

**London, March 1857**

John was disgusted with his body. With his heart for its erratic thumping about, with his hands for their unreasonable sweating, with his feat for lingering at the corner of Harley Street. Was he not a man to face his fears? If indeed it was fear, and here was the most irksome thing: that he did not know his own mind. John Thornton was by no means an indecisive man, but somehow the absolute certainty that he would see Miss Hale again, now that the seeing was only a few hundred yards removed, was at the same moment frightening and exhilarating, ugly and beautiful, an agony and a rushing pleasure.

All these years he had been certain that a removal was better for them both: she need not see him and be pained by the remembrance of his unpleasant society, displeasing affections and false condemnation; he need not see her and be mortified by her lack of affection and his own lack of trust. He knew that a visit would only raise a host of unpleasant memories.

Perversely, once he had decided not to seek Margaret out, his loneliness had almost gotten the better of him. Mr. Hale had not been dead a fortnight before John was feeling the lack of his insightful conversation and wit, and he felt it with all the frustration of a hungry, thwarted mind. Margaret's keen ideals and passions had been as sorely missed by the mind and more so by the heart. Her society was unique; there was none like it to be found in Milton.

Now, finally, the longed-for and dreaded day was upon him; anxiety nearly ripped him asunder. He took a deep breath, collected in his mind all he would tell her to prove himself a different, gentler man, and strode down the street. A redheaded boy looked up at him from where he sat near her doorstep – "Shine yer shoes, sir?" – but the lad received only a distant refusal. John Thornton was not to be distracted now.

He knocked.

The door was opened by a stiff, graying butler. "Good morning sir. May I help you?"

"Good morning. Is Miss Hale in? I am… an old acquaintance from the North."

"Terribly sorry sir; Miss Hale is not at home this morning. Would you care to leave your card?"

_Card?_ _Damn, must be one of those London things… Idiot! Oh yes, fine gentleman you are, John Thornton!_ "Ah… no. But please mention that Mr. Thornton of Milton has called."

At this mention of Milton, he fancied a very slight cast of disdain came over the butler's even features. "Very well sir. I bid you good day."

The door closed, but John stood on the steps for a long moment, keenly disappointed. This had, after all, been only a courtesy call on Margaret, to return would appear strange and suspicious. Now that the opportunity for agitation had been taken from him, he finally knew himself purely: all his contradictory emotions of the past few hours resolved into one solid, depressing cloud. The only negative feelings he could possibly connect with Miss Hale lay in not seeing her. To see her and talk with her would be a bliss he wasn't certain he deserved.

He had only taken a few steps back up the street when the little shoe shiner darted in front of him. "Ye lookin' fer Miss Margret, sir? Miss Margret Hale?"

John stared down, surprised and wary. "Ye-es?"

"Only I knows where she be now, sir, she be at our place! I c'n show you sir, no problem, 't ain't far!" He grinned a gap-toothed grin, fairly bouncing.

The pounding in his breast picked up again, a ray of hope pierced the dark cloud. "Oh? What place is this?"

"Oh, 't is a grand scheme sir! Come on, I'll show ye!" The boy snatched up his case of tools and started off in the other direction with a sort of half-skipping gait designed to keep up with longer legs. "Me name's Joe, by the way. Nice ta meetcha."

John took the grubby, polish-smeared hand and shook it gingerly. "I'm John Thornton, and I'm very much obliged." The sky of his heart was a clear blue once more, he would see Margaret, finally he would _talk_ to her again. His delight was uncontainable; a true, sweetly happy smile played over his mouth for the first time in years. That smile was only for the lady he loved, it appeared only when the joy in his soul was so hugely present that it must find some outlet.

Reader, later you shall have to speculate over the merits of Jem's choice of middleman, for though an amiable, energetic child, Joe was admittedly not very bright. Thus, the mention of _John_ Thornton settled into the boys mind without triggering a single memory…

~*~

Miss Gray was the schoolteacher. When she arrived every weekday morning at eight o'clock sharp, the children could spot her black dress and matching bonnet from at least a block away. She walked with deceptive speed, and this stern stride – almost a march – was her defining characteristic. The tread was invariable: when it snowed she carried a shawl, when it rained an umbrella, when the streets were muddy she lifted her skirts, but the quick, determined pace of her feet never faltered.

Margaret had discovered early on that there were many children in the neighborhood she frequented who wanted teaching, and more who needed it. A schoolteacher would be just the thing, she had decided. At the interview, Margaret had been horrified by Miss Gray's severity but quite impressed by her knowledge and experience as a governess of several households. Against her own gentle inclinations she had hired the graying woman, mostly because she'd had few other options. A few months later she had looked back on her conduct as one more example of how much she still had to learn in life: Miss Gray was a treasure.

She was strict, very. Lateness was not tolerated under any circumstances, rudeness was a sin and cleanliness the higher order to which she aspired: dirty hands or an untidy workroom or slate set her fearsome eyebrows to raising in quite a threatening way. But Miss Gray was also kind in an understated way, was never harsh and had an endless patience. She was also very flexible: it had not taken the two women long to realize that a normal system of lessons would be useless when some children had to work, some came when bored, some came when they could afford the paper, and the motley collection differed from each other too much in age. With the help of Susan and Jenny, the teacher had seamlessly adapted her instruction into a system of small groups that learnt what they wanted – or needed – to learn. Most youngsters came to learn reading, writing and some numbers, others were captivated by the knowledge and came seeking more.

Often it was Margaret who helped these last groups, since she had not had much experience explaining sums or spelling, besides an early few brave attempts. Teaching had proven to be much more difficult than she had previously imagined, but she was learning how to instruct the less basic subjects with admirable speed, or so Miss Gray assured her. The young patroness was with three girls, recounting the history of England for their amusement and betterment, when she noticed a redheaded figure lurking by the door.

"Joseph!" Margaret exclaimed, surprised. "Aren't you meant to be working?"

"Brought a visitor, Miss Margret," the boy said shyly. From the corner of her eye, Margaret could see Jem's head come up from the book he was reading (an enriching novel from her father's old library, bless his soul), distracted.

"Oh! Well, send them in then." _I do hope it's not another boy, we have no beds left in the boys' rooms, I'd have to move the girls around and they wouldn't like that…_

The visitor entered, and all her thoughts stuttered to a halt.

~*~

John felt like he was falling in love-at-first-sight all over again. He was amazed at the power she still had over him, how freshly and strongly the urge to kiss her still reigned. If he had ever thought himself even the slightest bit numbed towards her, more indifferent as the years passed and the sharpest hurt faded, he discovered now how thoroughly mistaken he had been.

Miss Hale was wearing a plain brown dress, her glorious curls were in a utilitarian bun, and her face had lost some of its glow of youth. There were the beginnings of crows' feet at the corner of her eyes, her hands had obviously not lain idle, and she had an ill-knitted, multicolored shawl around her shoulders.

She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.


	6. Chapter 5

**Note**: **Chapter 4 has been** **revised**: the plot hasn't changed nor has the dialogue, but I think the writing is quite a bit better (as I was nodding off during the last few paragraphs, this isn't really surprising…)

**Thank you for all the reviews!** I was _very_ pleasantly surprised to discover how many I'd received in less than a day! They have definitely motivated me. Special thanks go to **Miss Pseudonymous** for reviewing every chapter: you finally made me finish this one!

~*~

In all her life, Margaret Hale had rarely been so astonished as she was to see Mr. Thornton duck under the low lintel of the big dining room of her lodging-house. Mr. Thornton of all people, suddenly in London! To discover her location! To visit her here, though his affection for her had long since ceased! It was implausible, impossible, and yet she must believe the evidence of her own eyes.

For a moment she was struck dumb, lips parted and staring at him, mind unable to form a single thought. Then her London-trained mannerisms reasserted themselves, she was rising and stepping forward with a fair approximation of her usual serenity. "Mr. Thornton! How wonderful to see you again." She feared the flush of her cheeks must give her away when he smiled at her and took her proffered hand, for that smile seemed to say: all is forgiven between you and I.

"And you Miss Hale. Please forgive my rude intrusion; I seem to have interrupted a lesson." Solemnly he bowed to Margaret's three pupils. "My apologies, ladies." They blushed and tittered behind their hands, and Mr. Thornton shot her an amused glance: the smile was no longer so evident on his lips, but his eyes were kind and she glowed under them.

"Please sit down." She motioned him to a table furthest from most of the children and he obliged her, affecting not to notice how rickety his chosen seat was. "Jenny, would you bring us some tea?" Margaret had hardly sat down across from him when she jumped up again. "Oh, where are my manners? Mr. Thornton, this is Miss Gray, she teaches a number of the neighborhood children, some of whom are here today. Susan" – she motioned – "and Jenny help with the teaching and aid Matron around the house. You've already met Joseph, and _this_" – she indicated the smirking Jem, who had put away his book and was now openly staring – "is Jem, one of my most tenacious lodgers."

*

A certain curl of those full lips, a precise cant of an eyebrow defied her serious tone, and John felt a thrill that he could still recognize her jests. A silly thing to be excited over, he knew, but oh! if this were a sign that he still knew her mind, perhaps he could steer a safe course to friendship this time. Her smile and her look had welcomed him as if they had never spent all those months at odds, as if he had not blighted their budding friendship with presumptuous words.

She took her seat once more. "But what brings you to London, sir?" Her bright eyes and wondering tone defied the bland phrase and said without words: enlighten me, for I am all joyful amazement. John hardly knew how to look, for he had not dared hope to be received as a long absent – and now exceedingly welcome – friend. To find in place of the expected reserve and discomfort enthusiasm and a brilliant countenance was dazzling.

"I came to visit my sister Fanny and my new niece, Emma, who was born just three weeks ago." He had seen the baby already, dolled up in her sweet baby-linens, and loved her immediately.

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed, and with real warmth went on, "Children are always such a blessing to a family. Your sister already has a son, has she not?"

"She does, Lucas is five years old now and not quite as pleased with his baby sister as we are… But I daresay he will forget his jealousy soon enough. Let us hope he has Watson's temperament." She laughed at his dry words, and John felt a flush of pleasure so acute he forgot all sense for a long moment.

"But is your mother then also in town? I should visit her if she is, but perhaps she is busy with the baby?"

"I'm afraid she must be denied that pleasure, Miss Hale. Mother has already been in London to visit little Emma; she returned to Milton on Tuesday and is taking care of the Mill while I am in town." Belatedly sensing an implied affront in his mother's conduct – obviously she had not even made a courtesy call – he was quick to go on: "The Watsons have had a house in town since a few months after Lucas was born: Fanny couldn't bear to have her child grow in sooty Milton."

He caught her ironic glance – Fanny's quest for a house in town had been legendary long before Lucas was born –, but then she turned away as the serving girl brought out a teapot and a tray of mismatched cups. He marveled at Margaret's grace as she thanked the blushing Jenny and busied herself with the tea service: she behaved as if she were in the finest of London's drawing rooms amidst the civilest company, even in this poor house on its poor street. The delicacy of her movements and the composure of her conversation gave the plain room an air of grandeur and turned her simple cotton dress into a frock fit for a queen. She was as at home here as she had been in her simple house in Milton and as he imagined her to be in the grand rooms of Harley Street. All objects around her must gain in beauty because she was among them, and yet serve purely to set off her own charm and ease.

"How very kind of you to visit me, Mr. Thornton," said Margaret, and though she looked down at the pouring tea he thought he could discern a slight flush on her handsome face, "and to come out all this way! But I confess I am glad of it, for it has been long since I have had real news of Milton." _'I am glad of it.'_ Sweet words!

"I am afraid it may not be as interesting as the fashions of the _ton_, but I will be happy to oblige you." Did she notice the subtle enquiries hidden in every sentence? Would she see the meaning of his words: that he wished to be told that she cared nothing for the _ton_, nor for any of its men? John damned his own foolishness but could not stop himself. He was a jealous lover and he must know.

"Oh," she said with sincere carelessness, "I am not much among the _ton_. But please, tell me everything of my friends and of Marlborough Mills! How is Nicholas? And the little Bouchers? And how is your mother?"

John told her all he could, as they sipped strong tea from their contrasting cups and nibbled at a few plain biscuits. How Higgins was doing better than ever, a man of union power still but also his most trusted foreman. His house was clearing out: his daughter recently married, the oldest Boucher boy already a few years into his apprenticeship, one of the youngest sadly perished of the pox and buried next to his parents on the hill. He talked of his tireless mother and of the few other Milton friends she had, and finally he mentioned the Mill.

*

Nearly an hour later, Margaret was still all flustered thrills and fluttering heart, though she knew she hid it well. Indeed she _must_ hide it well, for she knew Jem's keen eyes were watching all through the exquisitely wonderful interview. They had talked of the companions of her Milton days, and of her dear father and mother, and of lighter, less serious matters, each subject close to her heart, but what surprised and gratified her most was his shy talk of Marlborough Mills. She had enquired after business, jesting that 'it seems to be going well, at least, that much I can gather from Henry's numbers'.

He had affirmed it gravely: "I must thank you again, I think. Business _is_ going very steadily, perhaps because of, perhaps despite several schemes I have constructed for my men." Naturally she was curious, and she coaxed further information from him very naturally by praising what he told her: that he had implemented several schemes to supply his workers with hot meals and money for a doctor, and thanks to Nicholas now had a very solid understanding with them.

You and I know, Reader, how Margaret must have received this news: with shock, and joy, and warm feelings, and not without thinking: _Have I brought this about? Perhaps my ideals have exposed this compassion?_ _Glorious man!_ She could not have loved him more, but she thought she must burst from pride in him.

~*~


	7. Chapter 6

**Oh dear, has it really been that long…?** Well, here's another chapter at last! Much as I would like to promise a more regular tempo now, I'm afraid it'll be either very quickly or very slowly. Sorry

Once again, thanks everyone for the wonderful reviews!

Warning: **unedited**

~*~

At noon the peal of church bells interrupted students, teachers and lovers alike. "Oh!" Margaret exclaimed, looking away from Mr. Thornton's hands (such large, finely formed hands, something about them was absurdly fascinating) and breaking off her own eager approbations of the Mill's running, "I'm afraid I must leave you, my cousin and I are promised for an afternoon at the Grants' for some very dull rubbers." She turned her thoughts from the space Mr. Thornton had been occupying for the first time since his arrival and felt suddenly guilty. "I'm afraid I have neglected you all shamefully, I _am_ sorry. Where have Sophie and the rest disappeared to? And Jem, I had so promised to talk to you about the essay…"

"It's no problem, Margaret" Miss Gray assured her, with a gentle smile on her face that defied her stern features, "The good Lord knows how you work every day, we can spare you for a morning." Turning away, "Children, please tidy the room as usual, and Patrick, if you haven't washed tomorrow morning it will go very hard for you!"

*

As Margaret moved away to help her charges scrub tables and stack slates, John stood as well. He meant to help, but could not think what to do or how to do it so as not to interfere with the general efficiency of the room. From experience he knew that one eager but clumsy worker could set the whole factory back an hour's work, but it felt wrong to watch the woman he loved sully her hands – although the clear traces of work and harsh soap on her delicate fingers could not have bothered him less – while he stood by idle. To cover his embarrassment, he turned to the young man Margaret had shown such amused affection for and offered his hand.

"Jem, isn't it? I apologize for interrupting your reading. I read regularly with the late Mr. Hale when the family lived in Milton, if his daughter is have so well a teacher I am sorry to have denied you the pleasure."

The youth grinned and grasped the proffered hand, shaking it enthusiastically. John felt large calluses and burgeoning strength and mentally adjusted his evaluation: clearly reading was not _all _the boy did during the day. "Ain't no problem, sir, no problem at all. The way I see it, we'll just have more to talk about next time! I've got a lot of questions about the North, sir, if you'll be comin' back another time." He was reminded of Higgins in the challenging, irreverent way of speaking and looking, but without the perpetual anger that burdened his overseer and drove him onwards. What then had taught this lad ambition?

"And I'd be glad to answer them." It would be amusing to search it out. But now Miss Hale returned and his attention could not but shift. She was taking off the bizarre shawl and smoothing it lovingly over the back of a chair, then tidying her basket and preparing to leave. The worn coat she slipped over her shoulders seemed incredibly thin, and he stepped forward, concerned. "Have you no other coat? You will catch cold, the weather is quite chill. May I call a hack to take you back to Harley Street?"

She smiled up at him, he felt the familiar squeeze around his heart. "I am grateful to you, Mr. Thornton, but it is very rare indeed to find a cabby in these streets. I do not mind the cold."

"Then at least allow me to escort you." He reached for her basket and felt too gratified when Margaret immediately obliged him, light as the thing was. The times when she would have held off distrustfully stood stark in his mind, the present a wonderful contrast. She took his arm for the first time in their acquaintance and his whole body warmed.

*

Margaret feared she must look like a girl fresh out of the schoolroom, smiling so foolishly simply because a gentleman walked the streets of London with her on his arm. She endeavored to compose herself but was terrified of appearing too serious: in this one glorious meeting, nothing must remind of their earlier disagreements. As a result, she spent a few painfully awkward moments strolling by his side (on his arm! squealed the schoolgirl), casting about for something to say. She could not regain the fluidity and joy she had found in their earlier conversation, rejecting everything her mind supplied as too much of the preacher, the child, the blue-stocking,…

Reader, you and I have all experienced these moments in the pursuit of love, so I need not explain the mortification our poor heroine suffered at such spectacular social failure, nor the rushing relief when Mr. Thornton (recovering from being equally overcome, although for quite a different reason) blithely asked, "You mentioned an aversion to the ton, Miss Hale, but how do you find the rest of London? Fanny _still_ raves about it and refuses to return to Milton more than once a year, and that only in summer." That wry tilt of the lips again, but also a genuine curiosity.

For the first time since the death of Mr. Bell, Margaret felt she could voice her true opinions without inflicting hurt on those dear to her. Warmth bloomed in her heart and her cheeks with the realization. "I find it… well enough, I suppose. Society can be amusing: the occasional ball, or picnic, or concert are all very pleasant. Mostly, however, it is as dull as this card party at the Grants' will be. I spend much of my time in this neighborhood, where at least I feel I can do some good."

"Ah. I see you still prefer the idyllic South." She thought she detected a trace of bitterness in his air and was quick to intercept his thoughts, looking up at him candidly.

"Sometimes I do, yes. I don't much like how languid the upper crust is in London, nor how desperate the lower classes. And other days, I miss the energy and ambition in Milton." He looked at her in surprise, an interested and gratified light in his eyes.

"I confess I like Milton, but rarely have I heard other people express the same sentiment!"

She stumbled over words, trying to explain. "It is just that… At times- since Milton, and leaving it, I suppose… nowhere feels like home now. With my father gone, and mother, and –" she hesitated, but could not bear to dredge up reminders of that period in their odd relationship, "-and Mr. Bell all passed away, I fear I will have to find other criteria for a home."

He looked at her almost solemnly and she thought he would speak, but he seemed to catch himself and offer an excerpt he'd once read with her father on family and homecoming. They talked of literature all the way to her doorstep.

*

John handed over the basket, wanting to say so many things but settling on "May I call on you again tomorrow?"

"If you can spare the time away, please do. Thank you for escorting me home sir, I assure you I've never felt safer." She had never jested with him in quite such a way, without rancor or disagreements between them.

"My pleasure Miss Hale."

Later he would analyze every nuance of the conversation, realize again how hopeless his future was and commence the turmoil of emotions. Right then, it was all John could do not to dance all the way back to the inn.

*

"Margaret my dear, wherever could you have been?" Edith queried, half-laughing as always and eager to be away. "You must go change quickly! The Grants will be waiting soon- why, Margaret, whatever has happened?"

Margaret started from her fond indulgence, patting her hair and clothes automatically to search for the mishap. "Whatever can you mean? Is something wrong?"

"Not at all! Or it must be something very strange, if it could make you look so happy again! Oh, it must be a man at last! Now I know you will not tell me about it no matter how much I tease, but just tell me: is it Mr. Baxter after all?"

Margaret laughed, escaping up the stairs. "I assure you Edith, you are absolutely wrong! I've just had a good morning, that's all!" And if she twirled around giddily in her room, no one was there to see it.

~*~


	8. This isn't a new chapter, but a promise

Dear everyone,

A few wonderful reviewers have recently reminded me that it has been over a year (!) since I last updated this story. Guys, thanks so much for this! All my reviewers' comments have been wonderful to read from the very beginning, but I was particularly touched that you stuck with the story even though it seems like such a dead-end.

I must admit that I was also shocked that it has been that long. Real life is the reason, but of course that's also an excuse. So, I'm writing this note to let you guys know that, after the final presentation of my research project on July 7th, there will be no more excuses. You can expect several new chapters shortly after, I promise!

Once again, thank you guys so much for your encouragement and support, it means the world to me. I hope you enjoy the coming chapters!

Shamefacedly,

the author


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